The Shadows And The Shards
by DarkSlayer84
Summary: Love saves nothing. There are no heroes. Mileena lives by these truths. Recent events may destroy them, or her. After MKG, heavily AU. Still in progress, I swear.
1. I: The Present

Tales From The Outworld: The Shadows and the Shards 

For Jaz and Nyohah--Thy beta-reading saved my life ^_^ 

Thanx to L for letting me mention Leander :^) 

NOTE: The blocks of italics indicate portions of the diary itself; the stuff in regular or mostly-regular (except for foreign words or emphasis) text is what is going on in the "real world".

  
_Diary of Mileena of the House of Kahn, Sword-Sister to the Nomads of Tenneil,   
Put Forth in this, the Second Year of the Reign of Shinnok _

  
I: The Present

  
  
------------------------  
_"Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."_

Attributed to Mark Twain (S. Clemens)  
----------------------

  
_ It could get me killed, but I need to write this out before I die--again._

I'm tired of being different things to different people, and none of them what I really am. Daughter, killer, enemy, sister, lover--none of these are me, yet I have been all of them.

It's my own fault, I suppose. I was always a flawless mimic, able to imitate anything and anyone. It was one of many, many traits cultivated in my DNA--I know what that is, now, what it means. My "father" had the Earth Realm in his grasp for a brief while, and I took full advantage of the opportunity. I've always learned quickly. It took me no time at all to figure out what a clone is...

Enough. The facts of the matter, no more than that.

I am Mileena, "daughter" of Shao Kahn, former Emperor of the Outworld. He's dead, now. Finally. Kitana killed him. She actually managed to do it...

Kitana conspired with her paramour, Liu Kang, to bring about the Emperor's downfall. Liu competed in the Tournament mostly as a distraction. Shao Kahn never reached the final kombat--Kitana assassinated him. Immortals don't die naturally, but they can be killed, and my "sister" has ever been a calm, efficient murderer.

If I didn't know any better, I'd say she's learned to like it. I do, especially in my present form. You see, this isn't my first life. As a clone, or whatever it is I am, I can be remade over and over. This is more like my fourth or fifth life, I think.

The more often you die, the more difficult it is to tell which memories go with which life. After a while, it doesn't even matter. Death becomes a dream that wakes you sweating in the middle of the night, leaving you unsure why your heart is pounding.

I'm Nomadic this time, a full-blood at last. No more posturing, no more lies, and most of all, no mask. I swore I'd never wear it again, and I won't. Not in this life.

Oh, there are things I miss from the last one. My teleport, for one. Nomads are immune to Edenian magic, and so can't use it themselves. And my sai. I've no use for them now, but I kept them. For old time's sake, I guess.

Ugh, sentimentality. Elder Gods forbid!

The New Era, the reign of Empress Kitana, was a time of celestial joy and peace. The Centaurans and Shokanii did the unthinkable, signing a ceasefire treaty. The Nomads declared clear boundaries between the holdings of each Clan, staving off feuds that went centuries deep. The land began repairing itself with the help of Edenian tree-singers. (They're like what mortals call "biologists"; their magic is that of green, growing things.)

Good things die quickly, and the New Era was no exception. To make a long story short, Kitana was betrayed. And not by me, this time. Tanya, Kitana's friend from childhood and most trusted advisor, turned her over to Shinnok. 

Shinnok. My Master, now. The uinforms he makes me wear are humiliating and ridiculous, even compared to those I was forced to wear under father's rule. Fortunately the Netherealm is always dank and roasting-hot, hotter than Hell. Literally. But back to Shinnok's victory...

In terms of kombat, there was never any doubt. Liu Kang and Kai, the Earth Realm's vaunted Chosen Ones, were slaughtered in the first few days of the takeover. Oh, they had the skill to oppose Shinnok, but they were too busy rebuilding their precious Temple of Light. He caught them completely off-guard.

Most of their companions--Johnny Cage, for instance--were killed instantly when the Realms merged. The reason for this is chillingly simple.

Portals to and from the Netherealm take their energy from human souls, much as my father's magic once did. Shinnok, quick to press the advantage, opened gateways over major cities and important military installations. That move wiped out hundreds, even thousands of people in minutes. The nations of Earth were shocked to the core, so severely crippled that most of them surrendered within hours.

The few that didn't surrender became Tanya's priority. She used every method--and recruit--at her disposal. When the standard promises of boundless power and unimaginable fortunes didn't work, she applied terrorism, threats, and blackmail. Tanya is now regent over the entire planet in the name of Shinnok's wife, Leander.

Meantime, Reptile was given control of the Outworld. He is vastly more intelligent than either Shang Tsung or my father ever suspected. Shinnok gave Reptile credit where it was due, making him leader of what should, by all rights, belong to me. 

I get the feeling it's nothing personal. To Shinnok, I must seem a wild card--protecting Kitana from father for years, then turning on her in the second Tournament, and then helping her escape Kahn's forces. Most people refuse to believe me capable of even that small mercy, and wrongly place credit with Jade.

Incidentally, I have no idea where the public image of Jade as close to either of us came from, unless it was her imitation of our outfits. She has so little to do with us--so little to do with anyone at all, except for Smoke--that some people question her very existence...

Where was I? Oh, right, current events. Let's see...

Quan Chi, Shinnok's pet wizard, is a loner. He's off in one of the darker Realms, mixing his potions and muttering vile prophecies, doing whatever it is evil magicians do in their spare time. Refining his shrunken-head collection, perhaps. Shang Tsung--one of the few wizarding folk I trust--has simply vanished.

So has Kitana. She disappeared on the eve of her downfall, but I know she's alive. I can feel her, sense her thoughts like a soothing blue stone in the back of my mind. It's another part of me, another trait, this one so strong not even Shinnok could alter it. I know I will find her, and I know I must destroy her. But I owe her so much...we were close, once, closer than blood, closer than the truth. I do not want to kill her.

But I know I will...

* * *

I must be more careful than ever, now. Tanya is on leave from Earth Realm, and her spies are once again everywhere.

Of all my rivals, she alone poses a serious problem. Scorpion is content as the overlord of the slave-souls in Outworld's massive Cobalt Mines.

Once Kahn's prison for discontents, Shinnok has refined the Mines into a private little piece of Hell. I never pitied the old prisoners--after all, if they betrayed father, they must have deserved it. But this is different. Now, not even death brings them relief. Their spirits are bound fast at the moment they leave the body, forced to continue their work for eternity.

Scorpion is their overseer. He succeeded in killing Sub-Zero during the takeover, and it's changed him. All that was once human in him is gone, perhaps stolen by Shinnok. Whatever the case, the Mines are Scorpion's priority, and he has no interest elsewhere.

Reptile, while ambitious, is more concerned with learning to use the secrets of necromancy to restore the Outworld Raptor-broods. He's convinced only the magic of the dead will restore his people. Which I don't understand--if they're dead, how can they be "reborn," or whatever it is he keeps muttering on about? I think the fate of his kind may be the one place where his cold, reptilian logic falters.

Leander is far too powerful, and too important to Shinnok personally, to deign to notice me or any of the rest of his "humble servants". As his wife, she has enough to worry about on her own, she of the red hair and green eyes. It's good that she has little to do with us; something about her makes my bones shiver. I get the feeling that if she truly believed in her own power, she could become even stronger than her husband...

But Tanya--there's the real threat. She's deceptive, a thief, cutthroat, and consummate liar. All the things I am, with a beauty I do not possess. I'm all too aware that skill paired with ugliness just doesn't go as far as a pretty face. 

Doubting her skills as a fighter was a mistake. I saw only too much flesh held back with not enough yellow cloth, tight enough that it looked ready to rip at the seams. She reminded me of a younger version of Shang Tsung's old slave, Vorpax. I assumed she was just as weak.

Judging by appearances. I, of all people, should know better. Tanya's quite fast, though not as quick as me, and fights with ruthless dispatch, on and off the arena floor. She was raised on the harshest of Edenian intrigue, and it's made her a clever, lethal planner. Most of her enemies never face her in kombat--they simply disappear.

Her grudge against all of Kahn's "family" extends to me. She would kill me, without Shinnok's intervention. Our feud amuses him, but only so long as it doesn't extend to murder.

Be that as it may, I'll find a way to be rid of that troublesome little strumpet...

* * * 

...I switched hiding-places for this again today. Hopefully, it will remain a secret, though I am unsure how long I can keep it that way.

Shinnok has given me new orders: to return to the Wastelands of Outworld, and seek out Baraka. Nothing a simple spy couldn't do. But I get the feeling that, for whatever reason, My Lord wants us back together. That could prove difficult: Baraka was the one to end my last life. The spurned younger daughter of a king, killed by her illicit lover: how Shakespearean. 

Yes, I'm familiar with the human Bard. My learning during "father's" brief conquest extended to more than science. Against Kahn's wishes, I dabbled in literature, philosophy, and Earth-history as well.

And music. Mostly classical; humans wrote more of that than they did anything else. I found it soft and civilized: pleasant at the time, but anathema to my present nature. Metal suits me, now; dark, hard and agressive. That and something called 'trance' music. I have no idea what it has to do with religious states; it isn't calm enough to induce them. But I digress.

Baraka. I fear and hate him for destroying me. I miss his warmth beside me in the dark. He is violent and arrogant and cold-hearted. He is thoughtful, intense, and fiercely protective. There was suffering behind his eyes, and a love that no one else ever saw. With him, as with no one else, I have been honest.

He is out there, someplace: the Squads' last reports place him somewhere south of Tenneil, probably Rhango, the Outlaw District, if I know him. A good place to hide and drum up mercenaries and thieves to fill out the ranks of his army--they were disbanded, but units here and there remain loyal to him. From there, perhaps he will plot an attack on My Lord Shinnok. 

A new thought occurs to me. Perhaps Baraka knows what happened to my sister...

* * * 

I don't want to seek out my lover, my killer. One of us must die, I know that already. Shinnok wouldn't have sent me unless he meant for it to end in killing. That's what I am, what I've been all along--a killing machine.

One more pain, atop all the others--I've no use, or desire, for it.

There are some good points to this mission, however. I'll be going alone, for one. No more Shadow Priests hounding my every step, relaying my every move to Shinnok.

For the first time in days, I'll be able to hunt. That's the largest drawback of this form: I need warm, living meat, and I need it often. In my last life, fresh blood in my wine now and again was enough. Not anymore.

I used to think it cruel, what I have to do. Now, it's merely practical. I don't eat intelligent beings--that's a scare-tactic my "father" forced me to use in the Tournament, to discourage his enemies. It's actually most unpleasant. When was the last time you tried to eat something your size in a single bite?

Either way, it has little to do with the mission at hand. The formalities are taken care of, this book remains a secret, and I depart for Rhango tomorrow... 

* * * 

The nightmare is always the same.

The skin of my chest simply opens, splits cleanly, easily, around the blades. The blood pours free, blossoms outward, a lurid red flower of death. Straight from the heart. My last gift to you, love...

His voice, harsh and tortured:

"I am sorry, _kiija_. I am so, so sorry..."

I hate this dream. It's different from the rest, subtle and insidious and for some reason, very sad. A whisper of despair in the depth of night.

Why does it always have to be this way? Why does everything I love destroy me?

I would cry, if I could. There's no room for such nonsense in Nomadic biology. The gland is there, but hidden under the skin: tears are a waste of water.

Why did he kill me? Foolishness! Does the why of it even matter? That life, that woman, is dead! And in my present face, he may not even recognize me. That is what I'm truly afraid of--that he won't know me at all.

Everything has changed--the pitch of my voice, the shape of my bones, even the scent of my skin.

I feel different, so unstable. I get unfocused rages, groundless bloodlust, a frenzy ruled by the turns of Outworld's red moon. The red moon is the face of D'hete the Unforgiver, the terrible goddess the Edenians call War God. Here, in a Realm so far from home, I still hear her song. I long to tear off my skin and dance in my bones, dance to death, singing back to the moon. To call down the stars and dance in my blood...

It's a strange thing, this body. Built on tension, poised to explode. Sharp angles of muscle and tendon, coiled around metal-based bone, tightened to the breaking point. Even the blades in my arms work as a result of muscle pressure.

Pressure I've been under for an entire lifetime...

Smell, taste, hearing, touch--all of these are painfully strong. I can smell people's blood under their skin, and sense their body heat, or lack of it, from a few feet away. I could hear a single leaf rattling against the bark of a tree in the midst of a windstorm.

My eyes have changed--It's as though everything's been polarized. Light, and shades of light, are subtle and bewitching. I remember, once, staring at a candle flame for hours, watching it shift and seethe and change.

I put my hand in that same candle, just because I could.

Gods help me, or I am lost.

* * * 

The air of the Wastelands is hot, familiar and blessedly dry. The everpresent dampness and brimstone stench of the Netherealm is gone, replaced with the cleaner smell of ordinary burnings--wood and scorched stone, mixed into the dust of ancient skeletons.

The suns are behind me, and Rhango is far off yet, in the east. I dread what I may find there. Or I may find nothing at all, learn that this is merely an elaborate trick, the newest turn in my Master's demented game...

No, it would be foolish to hope for that. I am many things; a fool is not one of them. I know Baraka will be here. The question is, where? Rhango is a sprawling area, almost a province of its own, and he could be anywhere.

Then again, he's not the sort that's easy to miss. There's that temper, for one thing. Despite it, or maybe because of it, he inspires a mixture of fear and worship in his troops.

Which gives me an idea: if he's looking for a few good men, he'll be looking for female officers as well...

* * * 

The suns have nearly set by the time I reach Rhin, the final settlement in Outlaw District. Here, I have been told, is what I seek. It's odd. I'm in familiar territory, yet I feel paranoid. At least in the Netherealm, I knew who was watching me, when, and why...

I can feel them looking at me--the few who are foolish enough, or desperate enough, to be walking the dust-blown streets this close to sunset. Nightfall, especially here, tends to bring out the worst element of the Wastes.

Most look the other way, or simply ignore me. One or two leer rakishly--blast this filthy outfit!--and follow me with their eyes.

On a bygone day, I might have killed them, or at least thrashed them about a bit. As it is, I'm too weary to do more than scowl. It's been a long journey, and on foot. I don't trust horses, or those steel cages on wheels the humans use--automobiles, I think they're called. They're an absolute horror. If I'm going somewhere, I'll get there on my own, or not at all. 

A sudden turn into a narrow side street leaves me facing a weathered, white-plaster building. It's mostly grey, now, in some places cleared down to the wood, the facing blasted away by sand and time. An ancient sign hanging out front proclaims this the Sword of the Chancellor Inn.

Checking behind and to either side of me for inquisitive idiots, I take a deep breath and step inside...

* * * 

I'm assaulted by sound and sight and smell. For a few seconds, the entire room sways on its axis. Perhaps I walked too far, or ate too little. I should have hunted. Again. Curse this body, anyway--it's always hungry...I shake my head to clear it, trying to get my bearings. Eventually, the floor stops its swirling dance, and everything falls into place.

The room is jammed end-to-end with people of all Clans and Factions, most of them in various stages of drunkeness. The conversations are a roar of rough-and-tumble jokes, boasting and mock threats.

Tables have been cleared from the center of the room and arranged as a makeshift border for a wrestling area. A slight, stringy fellow and a broad-shouldered old-timer are litterally locked in combat, their wrists tied together in such a way that neither of them can draw their blades. A skinny man with a jagged, s-shaped scar across his right temple approaches me, trying to convince me to place bets on the smaller one. 

I decline and move on, looking for space enough to stand still without being crushed by the crowd around me. An old, old fear starts clawing around in the back of my brain: claustrophobia. I push it aside and keep searching. 

There. By the rear door, next to the stairs. Two women, tall as trees and built stronger than some of the men, are standing guard at the foot of the staircase, barring the way to the rooms upstairs. People are giving them a wide berth. I head in their direction. I don't care if one of them guts me like a fish; I've _got_ to have some space...

A high, strident shriek cuts the sweat-heavy air, rising over the din.

"Not going noplace with you!" the voice is fear-shrill, a girl's. She's a skinny bag of bones with too much elbow, un-dressed in the scanty style of those who walk the Avenue of Burnt Flowers, struggling wildly in the grip of an unkempt soldier. I can tell by the fight she's putting up, and her tone of voice, that she's genuinely scared. No show for her john's benefit, this. "Curse your mother! Let me go!"

_"Siss duri ged? 'Rho du khanja, meija_," he says with a sneer. ("Not your type? You _work_ for it, pretty.") The snappish accent marks him as from the Drydens somewhere--if there's any place lower than Rhango, it's the Drydens. Bastard.

With a final longing glance at the clearing near the two guards, I begin moving through the throng, imitating the manner of an experienced Avenue-walker, coy and sly and not at all repentant. Perhaps this horrid outfit is of some use, after all. At least I look the part. Those who think they know what's going on make way for me, preventing a scene.

I stand squarely behind the bickering individuals and hook one arm around the soldier's throat, whiplash-fast and very tightly. The rest of the room sees a 'walker, enthusiastically engaged in her trade--they don't notice my other hand, fisted, jammed into his back. The blade is extended ever so slightly, just barely sticking him in the soft flesh covering the kidney.

"Think you big strongman, eh? You pick on girls, mercenary. A real woman, she not have you. Put you to sleep like the dog you are," I hiss in his ears. Observers will take it for sweet-talking, or dickering over the price.

He twists uncomfortably in my vise-like embrace, the girl forgotten. She flashes me a smile of gratitude and is gone, whisper-fast, melting into the crowd.

"How about you, _rho'hana_? You want some?" he growls, nonplussed.

I only smile and let him feel a little more of that blade.

"Your general," I say, "What him think of this mess? Officers acting like animals, like less than animals. I think him not be happy with you. We'll go tell him, eh?"

"_Your_ kind not get anywhere near him," he says, barking a laugh. "Him act major crazy--not eat, not sleep, not fight, and not love." He winces as I press deeper. "Like a walking dead man." This through grit teeth. Sweat runs down his neck, beading on my arm, intrusive and unwelcome.

"Watch it," I snarl. Rage prickles the inside of my skin, sudden and fierce as a lightning storm. I'll _kill_ this piece of trash for daring to talk about my mate!

"Come on, pretty." It's more of a wheeze than a taunt. "You know you _like_ pressing against me so tight." 

"Shut your filthy mouth!" My arm trembles with the urge to loose the blade. The blood sings in my ears.

A voice I despise, clear and cold and bitterly female, interrupts.

"Somehow I thought I'd find you here," she says with a sniff of disdain. I find that my vulgar prisoner isn't the only one breaking into a sweat.

What in Nine Hells is _Tanya_ doing here?

  
  
TO BE CONTINUED...

  
  
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Translations: 

Kiija = a term of endearment, roughly "lover" or "my love".

Sis duri ged = literally, "not your type?" But it can also mean "(this or that) ain't good enough for you?"

Meija = "pretty". This context is vulgar, roughly equal to "broad", "dame", etc. The polite form is meijana, which is just "pretty" with an honorific hooked on.

Rho du khanja = "you work (for it)," which again is vulgar in context, implying that she's a ho. The statement isn't vulgar in itself, but the context of the conversation made it so.

Rho'hana = "working woman", insult context, "ho" or "b*tch". Proper form, meaning simply a gal who has a job, is rho'hini. It gets really, really complicated after that. Please don't ask ;^) 


	2. II: Future Tense

**_The Shadows and The Shards_**

DarkSlayer84

**Notes:** _The big chunks of italic text are dreams, notes/letters, or diary entries (indicated ahead of time). Regular text, except for foreign words or emphasis, indicates events occurring in real-time. Third-person-omniscient will also be involved from here on out. As Michael J. Fox once said, "It's a blues riff in B, so watch me for the changes and uh, try and keep up, okay?" ;^)_

For Jaz and Nyohah, who waited patiently. They both have accounts here; go read their stuff and tell them how much you like it. *Shoos you off* Go on.

  
  


**II: Future Tense**

_------------------  
"I'll relax when I'm dead."_

--Popular Earth Realm Saying  
-----------------

The room lurches as I shift my grip, pressing across the major arteries in the soldier's neck. He struggles a bit more and passes out. I drop him with a kick in the ribs--when he wakes, the pain might help him remember his manners. I stagger, just a little, against the reeling planks of the floor.

"If you're through horsing around," Tanya sniffs with a twist of her lip; "we can discuss your mission."

"I thought you were on vacation," I say, stepping over the body at my feet.

She frowns. "I've returned."

Dizziness isn't the only thing making me sick. "How--delightful."

I slide past her, not quite shoving, and start looking for a table. It'll be easier to balance sitting down. My new body responds to stress in strange ways, and I've never pushed it quite this hard before. Tanya smirks, then looks past me altogether.

"You there!" she barks, catching the attention of a barmaid. The girl sidles up, burying a flicker of suspicion under her smile. "Drinks at once, for myself and my--associate," Tanya orders with a toss of her head.

"Fer certain, Miss," the girl answers, bowing deeply. "At once. 'N what'll you be having?"

"Water. And the tankards had best be clean before you pour it, understand?"

"Sure'n I do, Miss," the girl replies through those smiling teeth, glancing at me. There's a flash of mockery in her green eyes, or fear--she looks away so swiftly that it's impossible to tell. "'N you?"

"The same, if it pleases you," I reply, deliberately using Edenian. She blinks.

"Of course. A moment, please."

Shortly thereafter, she seats us. Her blouse matches her eyes, with loose dark sleeves that rustle as she moves. Tanya glares at her retreating back. She'll probably end up shortchanged.

Damn Tanya, anyway. She's refreshed, beautiful as ever, and in total command of herself. It painfully reminds me of my own dusty, sweaty, footsore condition. Against all reason, I wish for a hot bath. I might as well wish for the moons on a necklace, while I'm at it.

"Not talking here," I say. "And not now. We'll wait until she's gone, yeah?"

"Naturally, yeah, " Tanya says, with a cultured lift of eyebrow. I know when I'm being mocked, but I can't remember Edenian for 'get thee behind me'.

Our drinks arrive. The water flickers murkily, cloudy grey, cleaner than any I've had in awhile. I snap mine up eagerly, giving the girl an extra half-_ro'kenn_ for her trouble. Tanya eyes her own glass with glaring distaste.

"Best we got," the girl says, staving off the inevitable complaints. "Sorry if it displeases, Miss." But her eyes are on me.

Why? Particularly with Tanya sitting right there? Everyone else is getting an eyeful, including those she-beasts by the stairwell.

"No," Tanya mutters, "it's fine, really." She reluctantly hands over payment for both drinks, with a tip so small I have difficulty telling it's even there. "Keep the change," she says brightly, her smile too wide.

The girl nods, clearly fighting the urge to grind her teeth. "Anythin' more I 'n do?"

"Thank you, no," Tanya answers, before I can say anything.

Not that I would. No one should have to endure Tanya's presence for too long. Including me.

"So," I say, with a sip of water. It has a slight chalky taste, but otherwise it's quite good. "What's the latest from Netherealm?"

"Just this." She hands me a bit of yellowed paper, a scrap with a dry, bitter scent to it--Reptile. It's a priority message, then.

_Trouble in Tantiss,_ it reads. (That's a barrio east of here, the beginning of more civilized territory.) _Resistance forces nearby. Escalating raids in Gel Hallen. Base of operations unclear. At least one former Empire official at large in the Rhango area. Major offensive expected shortly. Require your assistance._

"And?" I say impatiently, shoving the paper back to Tanya. "I'm not with logistics. Not my problem."

"Oh, but it is," she purrs, pocketing the note and sipping her water. She gulps reflexively, getting it down with a squint and a hard shake of her head. "Uh--these forces? Your old boyfriend is their leader. The 'former Empire official', et cetera." She smiles conspiratorially at me. "This is one of those situations that requires--a woman's touch."

"I'm not like you," I say. Water doesn't clean the bad taste out of my mouth. "Wouldn't do that. Not to him." My hands tighten involuntarily on the tankard.

"Liar," she says. Her eyes are gleaming coffee-black slits. "You did before, when you thought it would gain you Kahn's kingdom."

"Not so," I say firmly. "Was his idea. I just made it work." Get the message, woman. I want to hurt you badly enough as it is.

"If you wish to think of it that way," she says airily. "I know--we _all_ know--you were his whore, and you so botched the job that he killed you for it."

Knowing Shinnok would have my soul is the only thing that keeps me from putting a blade through her face. I'm all but crushing my glass--it squeals in my grip as I concentrate on holding my swords in.

"Saying any more, wench, and I'll bite off your filthy little nose," I snarl, releasing the mauled tankard.

"I have something else for you," says Tanya nervously, finally taking the hint. "Then I shall be on my way."

"Oh, good." I sit back stiffly. "Got important things to do. Would hate to keep you."

"First things first. The note outlines things, but particularly in Tantiss--" I'll never know what she meant to say--the arm leveled across her throat obliterates it. That arm is, incidentally, attached to a rather angry-looking mutant with long, greasy, dark braids. He lurches back, hauling Tanya out of her chair, overturning it and the table in one chaotic swipe.

"My table, softbones," he announces. "I find out who sat you here," he pauses to glare at me, "and I'll gut 'em."

He knocked over the water. I'll hurt him for that. Or so I think, until a familiar hand attacks me from the right, swinging out with a fist to pound my skull. It's the fellow I knocked out not ten minutes ago.

I duck out of his way with a curse. "Don't stay down long, do you?"

He answers me with a vicious lie about my mother. I didn't have one, idiot.

He's bigger than Tanya's assailant, and missing his right eye. His hands are almost twice the size of my head--I need to get the hell away from him, fast. The muscles in his arms seethe like coils of rope, his outstretched blades magnesium flashes in the light. He swipes and I rock back on my heels to avoid it, stabbing at his face and getting the scalp instead. He lunges with a roar, reaching in to disembowel me. Sliding past his sword with a forward rush, I bring my knee up into his guts as hard as I can. And scream with sudden, impossible pain. My leg folds, going numb from the impact, as he kicks my other foot out from under me.

So much for hit and run. I catch him as I fall, getting my half-claws deep into the soft, open underside of his wrist. He howls and carves me a new eyebrow.

"Slut," he spits out, with a slap that makes my ears ring. His nails tear into my scalp, holding me in place as he hits me again. "Givin' Tharn trouble?"

"I'll give _you_ trouble," I hiss, showing him what happens when knuckles and throat tissue collide. He chokes on his own scream. I kick him off me and back up. He rises heavily to his feet, wasting energy in a display of stance-work and flickering steel. As he does, I finally get a look at what hurt my knee.

Bastard's wearing armor bands under that shirt--I can't believe I didn't notice before. Not that it matters, now, except as something to avoid.

The press of people has shifted its balance from around the wrestling tables to the edges of our little get-together. The cacophony of sound has become one low, continuous hum of alarm and excitement.

I'm getting a bad feeling about this.

"Shouldn't have done that, missy," crows Tharn, with a shake of his bead-strewn hair. Tanya is still struggling in his grip, slowly turning indigo, unable to free herself from even a basic chokehold. Then again, Tharn's roughly four times as strong as she is. "Mess with one of us, mess with all of us."

I smile at him, covering mounting apprehension with fast-fading bravado.

"So what?" I snarl, stabbing the air, keeping an eye on the other fellow. "Come on."

Tharn tosses his greasy mane some more, gesturing grandly, playing the moment for all it's worth. A few in the crowd are hissing his name, chanting it--he's just become their favorite.

"What'cha think?" he howls into the crowd, releasing Tanya. They answer him with a mindless roar of sound, bloodthirsty, anticipatory. "Let's let that one go. We'll fix the real problem, yeah?" He rounds on me, smiling hugely, hand and blade moving in unison like a physical exclamation point. "You."

Tanya's puddled on the floor, gasping so violently that it sounds like whooping cough. She tucks her knees under, and after a bit of crawling, manages to get to her feet. She takes a stance on my right.

"Charmed havin' you with us, Miss," I drawl, with my best forearm salute. If we're both going to die, I might as well get a little humor out of it.

"If anyone kills you," she rattles hoarsely, gulping down a cough, "it'll be me."

"Fair enough," I say. Then they descend, and there's no more time for small talk.

Tanya is a flicker of yellow silk and reddened coffee skin, dancing in and out of the fray, striking with whatever's handy. She smacks one assailant square in the forehead with a table plank, and he topples like a felled tree. Her pursuers trip over him, slowing each other down. Scraps of Tanya's outfit flutter away from her body as she runs for the relative safety of the staircase. One of the women guarding the steps hefts Tanya up by her choker, sizes her up, and flings her back into the scuffle with a smirk.

I strike to wound, to kill, but there are too many of them. My body feels like a loose collection of torn meat--it hurts so much that I feel nothing, only the sickening resistance of my own flesh. Many of my opponents aren't even wearing scratches. My attacks are dodged, blocked and turned against me with mocking ease. My nemesis literally cuts his way through, staring me down with his remaining eye. He levels everyone with equal dispatch, smiling redly at me. He parries my shaky defense and yanks me toward him.

I never had the sense to be afraid of anything until it was too late. I see myself reflected and distorted across his fangs, wide-eyed as he bears down, straining to bite out my throat.

A soprano scream from the landing stops everything.

"You _**idiots!**_" 

My attacker freezes in place. Even the Amazons wince. Those who don't stop dead in their tracks stumble into one another, setting off a localized riot of cursing, jostling, and jabbing elbows.

It's the blonde. Servant she might be, but she's clearly in control now. She quivers with fury, eyes ablaze as her voice cuts the crowd to ribbons. "Fools! You wanna bring Shinnok's wrath down on our heads? That's Earth's Regent!"

Only when she's done do I realize I've been holding my breath. Who is this woman?

"It was--we were--" Tharn stammers. His face is the color of fresh ashes as he turns to Tanya, having just realized who she is. "No hard feelings. All in good fun, yeah?"

Tanya gives Tharn a look to melt his bones. He flinches but doesn't hesitate, words tripping on each other in their haste to get out of his mouth.

"I--we're--that is...Most grievous sorry, Miss."

"Apology accepted," Tanya replies, sweet as you please. She leans over with a smile and kisses him on the cheek. Tharn goes stiff with shock and falls down dead.

A favorite trick of hers, that.

One-eye is frozen beside me, not daring to move. Before he can make a run for it, I slam my elbow into his neck. It crackles like stepped-on leaves. He hits the ground hard, breath rattling wetly. He'll survive, if I let him, and I think I will.

Recovery's always a bitch.

* * *

_From the Diary:_

  
------------------------  
"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

--John Lennon  
------------------------

(Yes, yes, I brought it with me; thoughts on the run . . . doubtless it will prove foolhardy . . .)

. . . Definitely not the entrance I wished to make. Then again, if wishes were gryphons, we could all fly.

Tanya didn't take a single soul, that evening. She even stayed the night, and let them bind her wounds. She was gone shortly before dawn, leaving instructions for the days ahead. Play recruit, go native, and learn as much as I can about these people, their operations, and their power structure. Find Baraka, and seduce him. "Distract him," she said.

From what? When I asked, she laughed and insulted me, deliberately playing my temper against my reason. Nice try, darling. I'm not one of them yet. She mentioned Tantiss a third time, saying only that Reptile would be interested in any information I could bring him about the area. I don't see how; it's a good distance from here.

One thing at a time. I'll take care of Baraka, and report to Reptile for further instructions--I'm sick of Tanya's little games, and I've no desire to be part of her latest, whatever it is. The sooner this is done with, the better.

At least I'm not the executioner this time. On the other hand, it means other agents will be after him--after us. I know full well that my Master plans to dispose of me at the earliest opportunity.

Not that I can help working for him. I'm under an enchantment that compels me to do whatever he says. It affects my senses; disobedience grants crippling pain and compliance brings pleasure. In the early days of my resurrection, he ordered me to chew on my tongue, and I obeyed with a smile. I would have happily bled to death, had it been his wish.

I cannot, of course, kill myself.

At least Tanya's blather has no effect on it one way or the other. For all her lording it over me, she has the same affliction.

Fewer tangents would be nice...

Tanya had a drink with the blonde girl, Brin. Not that either of them had much choice in the matter; Brin is the resident medic. (Subterfuge? Not that I'm surprised.) She made small talk while burying needles in Tanya's arm--some kind of acupuncture, probably, for pain and bleeding. Their conversation was empty, with quiet laughter and appeasing gestures at just the right intervals. Whenever Tanya became too direct, Brin would smile sadly and pretend not to understand, while adjusting the needles to pinch just a bit.

My own recovery is hazy to me, except for the memory of a tickling, detached awareness of the pins in my flesh.

When I asked this Brin whether she knew a Baraka of Geldoren, and whether she had seen him, she pointed at the ceiling, with a grin that had too much leer in it for my liking. The rest was simple--no, she had never heard of any sort of movement opposed to our great ruler, Shinnok, the mightiest of lords, but wasn't it a shame that there was such a thing. Yes, they would teach this poor girl, maid to a great lady, how to defend herself. This place offered such knowledge--despite all appearances it was also ghedo'shenai_, what humans would call a gym or dojo. And yes, should my mistress allow it, I would be able to reside here. My mistress? Tanya? I'll have that simpering little trollop strung up by her boot-heels if it's the last thing I do...at any rate, she left a week ago, and I haven't spoken to Brin since. I've seen her, here and there, snapping orders at her hangers-on and complaining about the dismal state of their supplies. Her latest tirade is about water; there's never enough of that. They're going to need it, says she, if she's going to be cleaning up after a bunch of louts like these. Sand makes a poor antiseptic. Fire's not much better, and you can't boil dressings or prepare sutures without water. She complained bitterly of having had to see to a delegate of Shinnok's, and damned if her maid wasn't trouble on the hoof._

As far as office politics go, there are two other candidates for Tharn's old position: Eyeless, and a military dropout by the name of Koteth. He sports dark red hair, a rarity among Nomads. This evidently makes him popular with the ladies in town--though much less so with their husbands. He and Eyeless play fetch for the higher-ups as a favor, in hopes of getting promoted without actual effort.

Some of the others have approached me for another sort of favor entirely, but pain and debilitation are getting the word 'round: this hana_ is not for sale._

The food, as expected, is beyond awful. I've got a sneaking suspicion my outfit would taste better--it would likely be more nutritious, too. (I could also mention that it would be a larger serving, but I think you get the point.)

Fortunately, there's always something hibernating in the sands, waiting to meet my blades. Mostly krik'sit. They're like crabs, but much larger, with vicious snapping claws and stinging venom that would kill a lesser creature. They're none too appetizing, but they're much better than the rations.

And it feels--good--chasing them down. Reflex, thought, and action--all are one. My senses blaze with countless things I never felt in my old form. The shift of the sand under my feet, the air on my skin--I couldn't hear_ it before. My own pulse sings in my ears, and the hearts of my prey rattle terrified counterpoints before stopping altogether. My wounds burn faintly, turned deep red by the mild poison, though in truth my blood is fuchsia-scarlet, like that of all my kind._

My kind? And what is it I'm becoming?

* * *

Brin leapt forward with a hiss of frustration. She hated middlemen, and Armano was far from her favorite person.

"Don't care what you think," she snarled. "You're not paid to think."

"Neither are you, gorgeous," he sneered in reply, his lone eye narrowed beneath a scowl. "Ain't your brains Baraka's infatuated with." He leered. "You got a healer's touch."

"Indeed," she said, and gripped his arm. In moments his skin was a blackened husk, curling away from the bone, fat and muscle glistening where it showed through. She clutched him tighter, and he screamed. "What's the matter?" she murmured, smiling. His arm hissed and sizzled and blood was running at the corner of his mouth--he must have bitten his tongue, though she couldn't see how; his mouth was strained open with the force of his cries. "Don't like my healing touch?"

"Crazy bitch," he whimpered.

"Wrong thing to say," she said, and grabbed his other arm, sidestepping as he fell to his knees. They were no ordinary burns--by now, his entire body felt as if a mountain of embers was crushing it. He was in too much pain to do anything but gasp.

She smirked. "That's better. Now apologize."

"Sorry," he managed hoarsely. His body shook with the effort of holding itself up.

"Sorry, Mistress," she corrected, and let the fire burn hotter. 

"Sorry, Mistress." If he could, he would have been weeping.

"Oh, very good." The pain would be worse before it was better--water soothed, but it was terrible for burns, and it felt like murder. Even when it wasn't really there. She made him feel it anyway. He jerked and twisted in her grip, desperate to get away.

"Help." It was a small, grating sound from deep in his throat.

"Of course. If you do as I say."

"Anything." He hadn't the energy to scream, but his fervor was plain. The cords of his neck stood out, pale with tension. "Mistress."

"You remembered," she cooed. "I'm so proud of you." She frowned, pretended to think it over. "How I'm knowing you're not going to just tell everyone, hey?"

"No," he protested, automatically, instinctively. It was amazing how quickly a little suffering made geniuses out of fools. "Never, Mistress."

"Never?" The feeling of water drilled through the burn and touched steel, tendons, bone.

"Never!" It was a scream. "I swear!"

"Then following my orders?" She cut the sensation to his main ulnar nerve; it was a patch of sudden blissful quiet in a symphony of pain.

"Through all Hells and back, Mistress." He smiled up at her.

"Wonderful." She deadened a few more nerves. As much as he would like new skin, he probably didn't want to feel it growing. "Make sure you're fighting that new recruit tomorrow. The female."

He frowned a little, but hid it swiftly and well. Her mercy might be worse than her wrath, but he wasn't eager to experience it again.

"Not hurting her too much." The first arm was done, whole and healed, without even a scar to mark the difference. "She's needed alive."

"Baraka?" It was a gulp of surprise. He winced, squirmed a little. Brin was working too quickly to be bothered with every single nerve. "What does he care?"

She finished his other arm, shook her head.

"He doesn't," she said, and left.

* * *

I saunter up to the corner of the main room, where I've been instructed to appear, and find that Eyeless is waiting for me.

"Hello," I say, taking stock of the wrap 'round his head. "You look like a pirate."

He frowns. "You look like a whore."

"Guessin' it's a compliment, since your mother was one."

He starts toward me, a polite smile frozen on his face as he draws one blade.

"Bring it," I growl--a human expression I learned years ago, from Jax. The words have a rough, eager feel in my mouth. "Bring it on, Pirate."

There's another fellow, shorter than Pirate but more strongly built, watching the proceedings.

"Hold it," he orders. Too late I notice the small double bars at the shoulder of his vest, in pale blue: an instructor, and one of considerable rank. I learned that much days ago, listening in on gossip and complaints.

Pirate steps off with a stiff nod, looking very put out. "Sir."

The short one squints at me with eyes like the edge of a dagger in the sun, brilliant blue-white. "Kind of scrawny. And too soft."

"Appearances not always real," I say. He shrugs agreement, but his expression doesn't change.

"We'll see, hey?" And he nods to Pirate to get things started.

His sucker punch comes as no surprise. I deflect his blade and slide past it, kicking him away from me on his blind side. He reaches to elbow my face and catches my shoulder instead. I shift my weight to recover my balance, bringing my swords back as he tries for my face again, this time with his blades.

"Freeze!" The instructor's snap puts an end to our battle. Pirate drops his guard with a clatter. I retract my blades so quickly that they cut my skin. "Good reactions," he says with a nod. Frowning a little at the blood on my wrists. "Bad execution, though." He looks Pirate up and down. "And you--sloppy. You stand so bowlegged, I dunno why she hasn't cut your legs off yet." He turns to me. "Your hair. It's too long."

"Which regulation's that?" I ask. I'm already acting like one of them, talking like one of them. The last thing I need is to be mistaken for some rebel upstart because of a haircut.

"It's a liability. Here, I'll show ya," he says with a gesture at the open floor. "Let's go a few rounds. No blades. You draw a sword on me, and I'll gut you."

"Sir," I answer, with a crisp snap to cover my uncertainty. What's he playing at?

"Name's Telsor," he says shortly, taking a stance. "Get it in gear, girlie. I don't have all day."

"Right." So I drop my weight, take a simple, open posture, and throw a punch.

He catches it with a snort and snaps my hand behind my back. But I'm already moving, turning away and backhanding him with my free side. He digs into the tendons of my wrist in response, hitting nerves along the way. That entire side of my body goes numb, and I'm kissing floor a second later.

Not for long. I kick him in the stomach, get my feet under me, and come up on the attack. This close, it's easy to hit him in the face. To try and hit him in the face, anyway. He dodges at the last second and uses my overbalance to trip me up.

Floor, two; Mileena, nothing. 

He reaches down and drags me up by the hair, choking me with my own ponytail along the way.

"Told you," he says, "it's no good."

I hook my leg behind his and pull him down, assisted by his grip on my hair. Definitely not comfortable, but I think I've made my point.

"It has its uses," I tell him, prying my elbows against his ribs, just a little.

"Alright!" It's a yelp of contrition. "Y'can keep it."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Don't thank me yet, dark-hair," he says sternly, twisting out of my grip and hauling me to my feet. "The real fun starts tomorrow."

It has to be my imagination, but I could swear I saw him grin.

* * *

_-----------------------------  
"He committed suicide and the Army committed him!"_

--Helene (Joanne Greenberg), "I Never Promised You A Rose Garden"  
----------------------------

I'm impatient, uneasy. It's difficult knowing that Baraka's here, that I'm actually under the same roof with him, and he has no idea I exist. Or perhaps he does. I've no way of knowing, and I do not like it. That's an understatement. I hate it. Kano might say I "fucking hate it", were he still alive. 

I see no need to deny or dispute that assessment. I rant and topple furniture and pick endless fights. I literally can't afford to get drunk, and none of these--I hesitate to call them "men"--suit me at all. I've tried all the things I'm fond of, reading and practicing kata and scribbling on these bits of paper, but it's no use. I can't concentrate. I can't sleep. I can't think of anything, anyone, but him.

Motion banishes him. Walking rids my footsteps of his presence. I take long, aimless strolls when the suns go down, kicking the sand in my anger. The whole desert swirls in the wake of my wrath. D'hete is always there, tucked in a fold of the iron sky, noting my every step. New moon, a tiny red sliver of insight in the sky. They say she sees the most with that Eye shut.

I wonder what she sees in me. A woman trapped in a mutant's body? Or is it the other way 'round? 

Her phases dictate mood. I may not be feeling it, but among my associates there seems to be less of an urge to fight. The unit's schedule was probably arranged this way on purpose. They wouldn't want new recruits hacking each other to bits. At the height of the lessons, D'hete ought to be full, showing her face, ready for battle.

Wait; wait just a damn minute! When, exactly, did I start buying into all this rubbish? I've never cared about any god or goddess, as Rayden discovered to his dismay. No one tells me how to live. Certainly not some red chunk of rock in the sky.

And yet...

Bah! It's nothing. I hope.

* * *

They rounded us up at dawn for calisthenics in "the Boneyard"--the remains of an ancient corral, out back and west facing relative to the inn. Lovely place. Full of fleshseeker ants, jagged bits of rock, and the occasional withered, vicious thornbush. At least it's shaded--not for comfort; nothing makes any difference in this oppressive, dry, forge-hot weather--but because they don't want us going sunblind.

I've never done so many pushups. My hands are basically shredded; my legs and arms aren't much better. My peers are in similar condition. The ants are feasting, having been attracted by all the blood we've left behind on the rocks. Not that we mind; ants are pretty good. They taste like spicy sesame seeds, if you don't stop to think about it.

It's not quite as bad as Shang Tsung's old lessons, where a wrong step could earn you a caning. These are only the basics, meant to toughen us up a bit--I get the feeling we're also supposed to learn control under pressure, what with all the insults and yelling. I'm no stranger to those, either, answering correctly and on time.

It will take more than physical hardship and vitriol to rid them of me.

* * *

He always kept watch on Black Tower, now. There was precious little else for him to do, besides sign papers and chafe under the recovery conditions Brin had forced on him. It was soothing, in a way, looking out at those empty spires the color of midnight. The sun made them shiver and dance. What little was left of them, anyway.

Kitana's agents worked fast--the Tower diminished daily. Soon it would be gone altogether. The thought made him strangely sad. He'd been drafted just out of his teens and hauled there soon after, to bow and scrape for a deluded, bloodthirsty Emperor and his foul-tempered wizard. He'd killed innocents in their names--strung them up and hung them from the forbidding black walls. He should have hated the place.

But it was also where he met her. It was also where he'd dared to hope things could be different. And so he sat, and waited, and stared at what was left of the Tower until his eyes burned.

She would come back. He had to believe that; his operatives had told him as much. Mileena would return, and when she did, she would head for the Tower. And he would be there. If it killed him, he would be there.

Brin stalked up behind him without a sound. Her sudden, silent arrivals no longer disturbed Baraka the way they once did. That was alarming--he was becoming accustomed to her presence. He couldn't afford that sort of attachment. He'd been attached, once. If it happened again, he wasn't at all sure he could survive it.

"Brin." Greeting, warning, perhaps an inquiry: the way he said her name was all these things, and none of them.

She watched him with those feral eyes of hers--he could feel them boring into his back. He knew before he turned to face her that they were bright green, glowing faintly with power.

"How are you feeling?" She knew what it meant, the window and what lay beyond it. She was worried about its impact on his health. And possibly more. Possibly. But neither of them would admit the issue, much less face it.

He tilted his head and tried for a smile. It had too much of a wince in it. "I don't know."

She frowned. "Really."

"Everything hurts," he said simply. "But I always hurt." He forced a laugh, a short hard bark that set off stabbing pains in his chest. She sprinted close, poised to catch him if things worsened.

"The staples." It wasn't a question. She'd designed those, worked from bits of his skeleton. But they weren't fusing properly, and they stubbornly resisted his skin. Every move he made tore at them in some way.

He nodded agreement with a grimace, blanching when she moved to touch him. "I thought you couldn't--"

"Hold still," she said. "This will be...bad. Worse, but then better."

"I don't--" and his jaws snapped shut at the brush of her fingers against his chest. Sandpaper would have been more comfortable.

"There," she murmured, eyes blank. The sandpaper became steel wool and started to chew into his skin, biting. Like acid, eating away the outside, burning straight through him.

"Hells," he protested, with a hiss of breath. He knew better than to push her away. If he distracted her now, it would be even worse.

She fought the pain jolting up her arms--feedback, a consequence of his suffering, no more than she knew she deserved--and forced herself to see: to look through the fibers that held him together, and understand them on that smallest of levels not even Edenian physicians knew about. It was there at the edges of the staples, the dark thing she recognized as the beginning of infection--only it was not real. She strained for detail, frowning in concentration. She squinted, hard; blood gathered and ran at the corners of her eyes. Tears. She blinked them away and concentrated. Such things either existed, or not. They didn't just appear. And they were never ghostlike impressions of the real thing. Unless--

"A curse." She felt like saying a few, herself.

"Figured it must be," he grated with a snort of disgust. "Order of Light, indeed."

"Shouldn't been messing with Rayden's finest," she chided.

"Tried to gut me," Baraka retorted. "Almost managed it. An' I'm supposed to letting that go?"

"For now," she said firmly. She released him--the relief was a sudden cold jolt for both of them--and sat heavily on the floor. "There's nothin' I can do. Too complicated. I'd need the weapon that did it."

"It's not gonna kill me," he said. "Is it?"

She shivered a little at the hopeful note in his voice. "Don't think so."

"Damn," he said softly, and watched the window.

* * *

_From The Diary:_

--------------------------  
"What loneliness is more lonely than distrust?"

--George Eliot  
------------------------

Curse my isolation!

I was always different from the Edenians--Tanya never let me forget it. My own sister offered me sanctuary, as she would a beggar. Even for Kitana the beautiful, the great and merciful, I was nothing but a charity case. She would have given me everything, had I asked for it--everything but the pleasure of her status. Everything but equality.

The Nomads, children of disaster--I think like them, I feel the same things they do. Yet I can take up all their customs, and never be one of them. The overbearing, unbearable pride of my former self will not permit such a low thing.

Strange to remember how I was, confident and smug in my disdain for them. Fortune smiled on the lovely ones and despised me, and it was all the fault of those mutants, those lesser beings that dared imprint their features across my face. I still go cold inside with the power of that scorn. There are moments when it takes everything I have not to lash out screaming. 

Only Baraka understood. He knew the same separation--he is the last of his Clan, and they were the last of the oldest blood. He escaped death by merest chance, and grew up to serve the very regime that destroyed his family. He knew what it was like to bear outward sigils and signs of commendation and hold emptiness and loss inside.

Damn it, I miss him, and I don't care what that means! May I die twice for it! 

I've heard things, quips and rumors traded over meat at mess-time, about him. They say he eats cadets for breakfast and informants for lunch. That his favor is far more dangerous than Shinnok's wrath. Once you earn his respect--which requires the achievement of six impossible things before breakfast, on your part--he'll walk over open lava to get you out of trouble.

Sounds like him, alright.

A few of these conversations mention Brin. She's his Second and advisor, much more important than any of my sources knew. Or Tanya's, for that matter. (That's good. A card in the hand is worth two in the pile, and all that.) She's saved Baraka's life at least once, though none can agree on exactly how she did it. The most popular version has her rescuing him from an entire Extermination Squad single-handedly.

Remarks on the two of them range from basic fact to lewd fantasy. I'm getting very good at boxing ears for that offense, without being stabbed in return. Telsor thinks it's uproariously funny. I suppose it is, from the outside--a starstruck cadet with quick hands and sharp words ready for anyone wanting to disabuse her of her celebrity crush. The word's getting 'round, and I'm half-hoping to see the look on Brin's face when it reaches her.

I'm not jealous. Not really. There's no proof that they're even involved.

That looks good, here on paper. I can almost believe it. 

* * *

Kitana. I know you're there. I can feel you in my head. You can sense me, too, now that we're in the same Realm. And you're terrified. What's the matter, darling--don't you like the new me?

No, no, let's talk about it. This strange link of ours. How many nights did I breathe the name of a lover who was not mine? How many days did I spend singing songs you had just created, moments before even you knew them? How often did you finish my sentences, my deepest and most secret thoughts bouncing out of your mouth for the entire world to know?

It made for incredible duets. You remember those.

We sang so well together, you and I. Your voice was prettier, sweeter, but mine had staying power. I could nail the tones you couldn't touch, and your voice melted the edges off mine. You made the whole mess worth listening to. We used to give performances in the Hall together, bringing grins to the faces of the otherwise miserable thralls, delighting the guards who were never supposed to smile.

Later on we fought as a team, a single entity in two shells, dealing death to our father's enemies. I gave you the drive, the anger, the will to destroy and the capacity to enjoy it. I helped you learn to kill and love the rush.

I know you hate me for that. You always were jealous.

No? You mean to imply that you despised killing? Don't lie, lovely. It doesn't suit you. I felt you murder our father.

--Oh, pardon me, my_ father. I don't suppose it matters now._

Besides, Tanya changed everything. How eager you were for a playmate of your own kind. One who could whisper secrets you would understand, who never played rough and never insulted you out of hand. You let her drive us apart, and look what happened. You let her use you and a new wave of killers swept into your Realm.

Have I wounded you? It's no more than you deserve, for being such a trusting fool. Trusting will get you killed!

You should be the killer instead. The hunter, and not the hunted. You have the strength for it. You always did, and never wanted to show it. And where has that gotten you? Your lover is dead and you're in hiding. You're not so different from me. --Don't sneer at me, you know it's true.

Ah. So you think I have that strength as well, sister? Perhaps.

See me in the Wastelands? Not if I see you first!

* * *

Do you know what it's like, running in the open desert on a world with two suns? Even at dusk the world wavers and the sand is blistering hot. And I don't care what Edenian scholars think: mutants do_ sunburn. _

I made a poor showing--I threw up twice and came in last. At least I finished the run. Those who refused, or had the audacity to drop unconscious, were left for dead. The lesson is being hammered home: there is no such thing as weakness. Weakness is the fast route to becoming vulture food.

Practice makes perfect, so we repeated the drill until it went from torture to chore to a matter of habit. That was four weeks ago, or maybe five--time blurs out here, softened at the edges by the heat. The route takes us east, away from the evening light, and through a lesser alley of the city on the way back. I'm--no, "fond" is definitely not the right word--of the ritual. Accustomed to it. I actually feel uncomfortable without it, now.

Movement for its own sake has become the law of my life--doing my old forms, practicing the moves Telsor has shown me, and simply pacing with my hands behind my back when I can think of nothing better. I've taken to sleeping standing up, braced against the front corner of the main room. It's a lighter sleep, tuned to the antics of the waking world and free of the burden of nightmares. No one can jump me unless they fancy crashing through a wall first.

The next round of training--slightly higher-level stuff--begins tomorrow.

Even without ambushes to worry about, I doubt I'll be sleeping well.

* * *

The suns, as always, beat down hard on our backs. The air itself twisted and shone, melting in the cruel light. Intermittent scorching breezes stirred puffs of dust across the field.

It was heaven. I'd never been so warm, heated all the way through. I could feel the strength of the suns seeping into my veins, as if I was a leaf. But I knew I could wither just as readily--most of us, myself included, wore _t'shiss_, loose coverings over our heads and faces to keep out the worst of the heat and light. There was such a thing as being too warm.

"Listen up!" Telsor barked, giving us the evil eye. "I catch any of you drifting, and I'll beat the sense back into you, understood?"

We learned the proper chorus long ago, a loud, united "Sir, yes sir!"

He smirked, just a little--the closest I'd ever seen him to a genuine smile.

"Finally learnt how to sound off as a unit. Took you long enough. Now, learn to listen like one." He paced down the ranks; I caught his gaze but failed to hold it as he stalked past. "Hear," he said, "the words of Kelharis, heard first by Dhernin, and now spoken by me."

I couldn't help leaning forward just a bit, tense and intrigued--the information might prove valuable later.

"We are all here," he said somberly, "because of the same thing: the gift of spark. It separates the true warrior from the street-brawler."

Definitely not his own words. They had the sound of being passed on for a long time, resonant with respect and in a markedly different accent. Was this their version of a high language?

"Spark is the result of discipline," he continued, "the outcome of attunement to oneself and one's surroundings. True spark is not a thing of boasting and idle threats. It is a gift from the Judge, and her curse also. Spark is the first edge of the sword: our difference from the others of this world. Use of the spark is the second edge: our similarity. All the peoples of this planet felt the call of magic, and we were not immune."

He looked intensely at us. "In the symmetry of both edges, there is harmony. Be certain to find this balance! Too far to the one side, and self is cut away. Too far to the other, and the world is cleaved from you forever. Have a care! For this is a rare and terrible gift. So are the words of Kelharis."

A human might have said, "the silence was deafening". It wasn't--there was the same rustle of breath and clothing and position one hears in any crowd straining for quiet. I'd say, rather, that the silence was profound. 

Telsor faced the center of the line. We all got a clear view as he lifted a hand palm-up, level with his chest.

"Now," he said, eyes stormy as he surveyed us. "Y'may have felt somethin' all your life, and not known what it is." A soft blue glow emerged around his fingers to illustrate the point. "It might've been a dream you thought you recognized the next day."

The glow brightened, intensified. "Might've been a bad fall you took, where bones didn't break even if they should've." The glow developed blue-white tendrils that danced softly against his open palm until they formed a loose ball. "That's yer spark." 

Instead of speaking, he made his point with action, releasing the glowing ball. It shot forward with a hissing crackle, unhampered by the air, and smashed into one of the fence-posts.

The post exploded in a shower of splinters.

"Questions?" he asked with a lopsided smirk. Daring us to speak.

"Sir!" Mouseballs piped up from under his goatee. He was promptly ignored.

"Sir!" growled Pirate, and he was given right to speak. "Posts don't hit you back," he said, clearly regretting it when Telsor focused on him. "Sir," he added hastily.

"C'n anyone tell me what's wrong here?" Telsor bellowed, answering himself before any of us could. "He's stated the obvious while completely missin' the point!" He stalked up to Pirate with a humorless grin. The larger mutant shrank before him. By virtue of being two trainees down, I heard what Telsor issued through his teeth, still ground in a smile: "You really stepped in it this time, fella." And louder: "See if you can learn to listen up--drop and give me fifty, now!"

Pirate swallowed whatever retort he'd had in mind and replaced it with, "Yes, sir!", launching into a nice long series of pushups, on his fingertips in the sharp gravel and hot dust.

Obedience is a beautiful thing.

"Now then," said Telsor briskly, resuming the round. "Any o' you got an intelligent remark?"

"Sir!" said Mouseballs, not quite bouncing on his toes.

"Anybody else?" asked Telsor pointedly.

No one volunteered. Least of all me--there was enough animosity against me already, and anyway, I wanted to hear the poor fellow's thoughts.

"Alright then," Telsor said. "Go to the head of the class, Mouseballs."

" 'S a spiritual guidance," he answered seriously. "A test from Her."

"Where'd you get that bright idea?"

"You--you mentioned it, sir," he said, uncertain but not afraid.

"Very good!" Telsor howled back, off and pacing down the line once more. "He knows what's what--if all else fails, quote your superiors. But that's not the right answer. Can you ladies tell me why?"

"Sir!" said Koteth abruptly. "There _is_ no right answer, sir!"

Telsor did a double take, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I'll be damned! Prettyboy actually gets it! An' that means," he continued, a grin spreading over his face, "you're first."

Koteth's sense of relief abruptly died, but he held his tongue--he might have swallowed it; I saw his throat jerk with the urge to say something.

"Oh yes," Telsor said with a nod. "Yer gonna show us how it's done." And he motioned Koteth out of line with a sweeping gesture. "Stand there."

"Yes, sir." Koteth broke ranks and stood stiffly at attention.

"At ease. Relax, fella," said Telsor, poking him solidly in the chest. "Ain't gonna bite you. Loosen up."

Koteth obeyed, just barely, still looking like he'd been starched.

"Good enough," Telsor remarked. "Now then--first posture!"

Koteth adopted an open stance, feet apart, knees bent, and hands in fists at his sides.

"This," Telsor told the group at large, "is a grounding posture. Save your life, if it's done well. Help you get your ass kicked, if it's not."

There was a general murmur and shifting of feet; we'd learned this already.

"Now," he went on, "y'call it a grounding posture for an important reason--it's good for gathering spark." He nodded to Koteth. "Show me second posture."

Koteth brought an arm out, bent in an L-shape, palm flattened back. The other hand made a fist, nestled inside the fence of the left arm.

"Nice," Telsor commented, slapping Koteth's wrist with a resounding _crack_. "But make it straight, understand?"

"Yessir," Koteth answered, a whistle through clenched teeth. His wrist was livid red, but he didn't waver, bringing it level as ordered.

"Prettyboy's now in the correct stance for using spark in combat," said Telsor. "But y'still dunno what spark is." And he focused once more on Koteth. "Wrist hurts, huh?"

"Sir," Koteth agreed with a sharp nod.

Abruptly, Telsor pulled himself into a stance. "Wanna do something about it?"

"Sir?"

"I'm givin' you a chance to beat me up! Better take it," he added with a wink. He kept talking as Koteth limbered up, settling into position. "Think about that pain. Think about how much y'wish I felt it instead. And get real clear about it. Absolutely clear."

Koteth did exactly as ordered. This was no moment of quiet reflection—a snarl froze on his face as he stood absolutely still, very tightly, like his muscles were made of wire. When next he looked at Telsor, there was a strange, faintly red glow to his eyes.

"Now--punch me with yer injured side."

Before, Koteth might have hesitated. Now his outer hand was a fist, rushing for Telsor's chest. There was a flash of blue, so quick it was almost invisible, followed by a sharp sound like a tree splitting. Telsor staggered under the impact, the breath going out of him with a hiss.

Now, the silence was deafening.

"That," he managed at last, "is spark."

* * *

_From The Diary:_

(Point. And Counterpoint.)

--------------------------  
"Use less of what you have one of and more of what you have two of--oh, all right, shut up and listen!"

--Lieutenant Sonya Blade

"Eyes open, mouth closed: the best way to starve to death."

--Kelharis  
------------------------

I recognized spark as part of Baraka's old repertoire, the "blue flame" routine. He hid its true nature, bringing his blades together so that it seemed a result of friction, a bizarre fluke of the strange metal growing in his body. I had no idea it was magic.

Magic with rules of its own. It's like peripheral vision, a shadow in the corner of the mind, a lightning bolt caught by the tail. Confronting it head-on forces it to vanish. You can kill quite easily with a proper spark--however, you'd receive second-degree burns from the backlash. The energy needed to destroy multiple targets, or a target with a spark of its own, doubles exponentially. Under that kind of power, one has a good chance of literally burning up.

It's as Telsor said: the nature of the thing is in the balance.

Thank all the gods Shinnok sent Tanya--paying attention was never her strong suit. Otherwise, she might have noticed that the building was tiny for the number of people, all of whom just happened to be in fighting trim. She would have seen that money very rarely changed hands, and that Brin was the only barmaid. The owner was nowhere in evidence--because he didn't exist.

As an inn or bar, the place was a complete wash.

I pointed this out to Telsor, and it made the info rounds--he handed it off to his superiors, who mentioned it to Brin, who presumably told Baraka.

Speaking of whom: for all that he supposedly lives here, I haven't seen him once. General consensus is that he never comes down if he can help it. A poor move on his part--I can see the disdain, the arrogance that flourishes in scum like Pirate, and the worry in the eyes of Baraka's supporters.

I'm glad he hasn't made an entrance. I don't know what in Hells I'll do if--when--I lay eyes on him again. Give him a sound thrashing, probably. Or kiss him fit to collapse his lungs. Or both. Both might be fun.

Here's a thought: how do you blush on paper?

* * *

We've switched from one-on-ones with the instructors to going head to head with each other. There are fewer rules, but the point system is the same--legal contact is one, cuts are two, anything more severe is actually detracted from the final score. Illegal contact, or contacts that cancel each other, are a draw.

I've been paired with Koteth. In general, people steer clear of him; he's got sufficient fighting-chops to back up his ladies' man status. That's one of the things that makes him popular--Nomad men aren't known for their kind treatment of females, and Koteth's beaten the tar out of more than one abusive husband.

There's none of that backhanded chivalry to him now, though. He's bouncing a bit on his feet, tensed in fighting posture, head uncovered against the sun. His unruly hair stands straight up, a crest of flames licking off the top of his head.

"I'll bury you, Butch," he growls, by way of greeting. I take a stance without answering him. "What, no small talk? I'm hurt."

"Y'will be," I say, and close with him, snapping my blades out so quickly that they ring.

He blinks in surprise, drawing his own swords with a sharp grin, and we begin the circle 'round. I take the initiative, striking down from the top position--Thunder Cut. It's a powerful stroke; he actually has to step backward to stop it. Metal sings on metal and finally grinds to a halt. Before he can take advantage of my overbalance, I snap my other arm out, striking sidewise with the flat of the blade. He swings back to avoid it. Draw.

We part and close again, kicking up dust. I snare his cutting arm under one of my swords, but he twists loose before I can make contact. Another draw.

He breaks out quick, short strokes that are more distraction than attack, built on defense postures--Blood Finches Dancing. It leaves me nowhere to land a hit, a guardian cage of living steel. At the last moment he drops the posture, catching my blade on his own and giving me a good clip on the arm. That's two points for him.

"You look almost vulnerable, bleeding like that," he says. "You need a man in your life, somebody to protect you, yeah?"

I force my entangled arm down, ignoring the blood, and thump him hard in the open side with my foot. My point, but he's ahead in the game. 

"You can't afford it," say I, reaching to get at him with my blade. "An' I don't need protection."

His sword catches mine as he steps forward to meet it, both of us trying first the left and then the right sides, and ending up in gridlock.

"So?" he demands, dropping the leverage and delivering a swift snapping cut to my ribs. I cry out in surprise and it makes him smirk. Another two points, in his favor. I come in from the side, diagonal into the center of his chest, blocking his counterattack with my other arm. Redness runs down his torso and now I'm the one grinning. Two points. I coast in on momentum and elbow him in the face as he backs up. My point. I don't kick him on the rebound--he'll be waiting for that. I stomp on his foot instead, right in the instep. He springs back with a yowl. The game is mine now, five to four.

"So forget it," I say.

He cuts upward with a snarl, reaching to get to my throat, unprotected beneath my chin. I barely block it in time; my arm shivers with the impact. His other blade whistles out, the flat side smashing across my temple. Reflex keeps my swords up and protects me from a slash in the midsection. Smirking, he kicks my weight-bearing foot, and I collapse in the dust.

"Hey," say I, coughing on some grit, "you don't take rejection very well." 

He answers me with his blades; one on either side of my head, spearing into the dirt as he more or less sits on me.

"Come off it. We're great for each other."

"Maybe," I tell him, as if thinking it over. "And maybe not."

A well-placed knee gets rid of any excitement he might have been feeling.

"Bitch." The word is a whimper from deep in his guts as he struggles to free himself from his entrenched position, his swords coming loose in jerky increments. "You fucking bitch..."

"Not with you," I hiss, getting to my feet as he hobbles back. "Ain't some dazzled village wife, pretty-hair."

He twists on his feet to face me and reacts with his blades. Two-handed, parallel--Snake Strikes Rooster, straight for my guts. That's not a strictly legal move, but I don't think he's interested in practicing anymore.

I catch it about halfway, slicing my forearms, and show him Stones Down the Mountain. I cut through nothing but air. He's already responding, swords together and up the side, rushing for my neck--a decapitation stroke.

I throw my blades up, pushing against him with all my strength. The metal screams like a dying thing. I answer it, counterpoint, howling my pain. Blessedly, the impact registers. I go numb to the shoulders with shock, bounced backward nearly off my feet.

He gouges my wrist as I retreat, separating carpals, seeking tendons. Definitely not a legal move. My right arm is still numb--nerve damage. He puts a deep wound in my thigh as I scramble to get away, bone showing sickening grey in the sunlight. My screams serve only to encourage him; he lunges, this time aiming for my heart.

Well, if he doesn't want to play fair--

With a lope that sends jolts of agony through my body, I carve the underside of his arm. My balance gives out and I pitch forward, sending the blade clean through his shoulder. His cry is not remotely human, the strident scream of twisting metal. Swearing savagely, he kicks me in the stomach so hard that I retch, literally tearing us apart.

I go down, and stay down, too dazed to be alarmed. The dirt beneath my leg is a puddle of soft, dark mud, sucking toward the open bone. The sand changes color with surreal speed, ochre-orange overtaken by swift, seeping violet red. Somewhere on the edge of my collapsing vision, Koteth struggles to his feet, clutching the ends of his wound shut with his good hand as he calls for a medic.

"Told you," I wheeze, "you can't afford it."

He mutters something that could be an apology, and everything melts into darkness.

* * *

_Racing away, fleeing on torn and burning feet. She is gaining on me. If I look back I will see her, smiling and dead, chasing me, always closer--no don't think about that, don't think about that, don't think, don't look..._

She is playfulness and summer sun and kittens. There are knives in her hands, gleaming and deadly. She is gentility and sophistication and love. The knives drip darkly, wet as the holes in my skin, slick and blackly shining like my footprints. She'll kill me, this time, and her smile will never waver.

She walks where my world is terror and running, and she is gaining on me. My heart is in my throat, clutching with effort. My feet split open, flowering apart, and my bones rattle as they claw the dirt. If I can just go a little faster--

"Hurry, hurry," she says softly, laughing. There are knives in her smile. "I'm catching up..."

"Wake up!" It's not the creature of my dream; its voice is all wrong--high and warm, rough at the edges. I shy away, curl up tighter, hoping the voice will go away.

"Not that again," it gripes, exasperated. A sharp poke in the ribs, too much like the memory of dream knives. "Get your ass off my table," she persists, with another, much harder, jab.

Then the world comes together in a familiar explosion of pain--I've just been slapped. It might be best to say something.

"Cut it out," I warn, as fiercely as I can manage. With a guttural murmur, the owner of the voice moves back. She's got light footsteps and a familiar rustle accompanies her.

Brin. I open my eyes, dodge another swing, and sit up. 

"I'm conscious!" I hiss.

"I know," she says, too exhausted to smirk. Even her hair looks tired, blonde fuzz sweat-plastered listlessly to her head. "You'll live," she says simply. "Not needing stitches, either. Gonna ache like hell, though. Stubbornest vein system I've ever worked with..." She trails off with a blink, realizing my intent. "Uh, might not wanna walk out like that."

"Huh?" At which point I realize I'm naked. I force myself to sound casual. "I...see."

"Clothes were trashed," she explains briskly. "Drenched with your enemy's blood, mingled in yours and left to stay. Attracts bad spirits--way bad fortune. So I purified them."

Something in her tone worries me. "How, exactly?"

"Burnt them up."

"Great." So much for the ward woven into the cloth. It identified me as a servant of Shinnok. As far as his minions are concerned, I'm just another mutant now.

At least it's warm in here. Hot, really. I remember reading somewhere that heat promotes blood flow--maybe it's part of recovery. Damned if I know.

"Anyway, wouldn't worry about it," she says lightly. Her grin is too wide, too innocent. "Mileena."

"Dunno what in Hells you're on about. I'm no Lady."

"Oh, right," she says, eyes dancing with amusement at my expense. "You're, lemme think--Aliira, of Dal Felden, housekeeper and would-be harlot, daughter of Gresh and Thendri. They're the village 'herbalists', if yer catchin' the drift."

"Uh-huh," I say, genuinely relieved. I'm in no shape to fight my way out of anything. "That's me, ma'am."

"Nice try." Her claws flicker as she counts off points on her hand. "Aliira's lazy. She wouldn't come sign up. And greedy--no way she'd turn down half the propositions you got. Besides, she's dead." Brin's mouth flattens as she crosses her arms, not quite hugging herself. "All of them killed by the Squads months ago. There is no Dal Felden anymore."

"Oh." The heat doesn't stop me from feeling a sudden chill. "I'm--"

"Sorry?" Her head snaps up, green eyes glittering. "Don't be. My Lady."

"Don't call me that," I say. "I'm not."

"Well, you sure as Hells aren't Aliira." She sets to pacing, stiffly. "Tell me why Shinnok sent you. 'Cause unless my--supervisor--has totally taken leave of his senses, you are Mileena."

Supervisor? Three guesses who that is.

"Might wanna watch your back," I say lightly. "Baraka tends to stab people in it."

"Not badly as I do," she says with a lift of eyebrow. Her way of telling me to mind my own business? "And I'm asking again--why did Shinnok send you?"

"Maybe I'm here on my own, yeah?" I say. "Never thinking I'd risk my neck to go after something I want, just for myself?"

She doesn't answer me, stalking across the room.

"Y'were out of it for a long time. Didn't think you'd ever stop bleeding," she says, frowning. "Your sister's worried about you, too."

I can actually feel the color drain from my face. I struggle to say something, but all that happens is a kind of squeak.

"No big deal," she says, smiling. "Our little secret, hey?"

Speech comes back to me with a strangled sound. "Would you _stop_ that!" I sputter. "How'd you know? Even Shinnok thinks she's dead!"

"I healed you," she says shortly, a sudden closed look sweeping over her face. "Inside. And I--met her." A flush of embarrassment crawls up her neck and settles, crimson, in the tips of her ears. "Most sorry."

"Couldn't be helped," I say. It's not Brin's fault Shinnok restored and amplified my link with my sister.

I drop one foot to the floor and stand, pain lancing up my side. The muscles stretch, flexing violently by themselves, with a sudden ripping tension as if they're going to split. I grit my teeth and take a step, happy to discover that walking hurts much less than standing still. It also helps with the tremor. So I set to it, pacing slowly, favoring that side.

"Good," she says, surprised, tensed to catch me if the leg gives out.

"Not so very," I admit, as the leg shivers on its own. "Wait--what do you care?"

She shrugs, the motion not quite covering up a flinch. "You matter. To him," she says shortly. "In my best interests is keeping you alive."

"Right." I cover conflict with motion, covering myself with both arms. "Alive and clothed?" Pressing the point. It makes her grin, tightly. 

"Yeah, I got some things you can wear."

"A present?" I say dubiously. They practice a brand of witchery that involves the giving and receiving of gifts. I don't need a curse on top of everything else.

"Not mine," she assures me. "His." Her tongue peeks out, scrubs her teeth: uncertainty. Either she's not sure she should give me what it is, or she's not eager to hear Baraka's reaction when, or if, he finds out. Given the way she goes resolutely still--refusing to fidget--it's probably both.

"Indiscreet," I say, uncomfortable. "People will think--things."

"They think things anyway," she says. She's sick of all the gossipmongers, and wants to shift their focus to me. Cute.

"Nice move," I say, and surprise myself by meaning it.

"Thank you," she answers with the same candor, sprinting over to a chest along the side wall, buried behind an array of empty glass pipes. She flings the glass aside--for people living in a world of sand, it's hardly valuable--and starts digging through the trunk. There's the sharp stench of dried herbs, the dusty notes of something mineral, and harsh chemical stinks I can't place. It reminds me faintly of Shang Tsung's study.

"Here we are," she says, producing a garment I recognize instantly: a sleeveless fighting jacket, white bordered by red, creased a bit in front--Baraka had a habit of tucking it in, when it was his.

I can't do anything but stand there, numb, as she approaches with it. Only when she presses it into my nerveless hands do I come back to life.

"I can't wear this," I say, wishing my tongue didn't feel like lead.

"What if I told you--" she says, deliberately and slowly, "that he wanted you to have it?"

"I don't believe you." After all, can't the mighty Baraka speak for himself?

She makes a small, sharp sound of disgust. "Then walk out there naked."

"I think not," I say, unable to come up with a better response.

I wait a moment more, pretending I really have a choice, and slip the vest over my head. It's surprisingly smooth, ropelike cloth turned soft as velvet by its former owner. It's cut for a man, broad at the shoulders and a bit low in front--guys don't have cleavage to worry about. I knot it closed, pleasantly surprised. It covers me much better than I thought it would, and a lot more securely than that silk hanky I wore by Shinnok's decree.

"You're wider than him, though," says Brin with a smirk. "Big hips."

"You know," I say sweetly, "I really don't like you."

"I really don't care," she says, eventually coming up with a pair of dark slacks. "These might work."

They're an indigo shade of purple, and they lace up the sides. Vorpax had a pair of pants like these, in a different color. 

Perish the thought.

I slip into them and pull the sides closed, harshly, making sure they'll stay put. I was always a little bottom-heavy. Shinnok saw no reason to correct the problem.

"Good," she says, with none of the artifice of Tanya's comments. "But not like that," she adds, sidling carefully up to me. "Here." She reaches for the laces, smoothing them upward, from ankle to calf to thigh. Snaking the closures open just slightly, adjusting the pressure on the cloth until the skin shows underneath. I can feel her pulse against my leg. Her fingers are trembling, just a little. Her hands are very warm. And they're taking liberties they probably shouldn't. "I'm sorry if--"

"It's fine," I say wryly. "I won't bite."

"Pity," she says.

I brace, jolted as if dipped in ice water. "Say what?"

"Nothing," she answers quickly, stepping back, unhanding me. "That's better."

I clear my throat. "I'll say."

"Y'might wanna finish up. Yer expected, out back."

"Oh yeah? For some more touchy-feely?"

She stiffens, standing away from me with hard finality.

"Thinkin' you can waltz in here," she growls, "just prance in and warm-and-fuzzy your way through the ranks? Because he's yours?" She's all but snarling and there's the telltale shiver at her wrists, steel desperate to escape. "You gotta earn your way out here, Princess."

"Not like that, I don't," I say. "And I told you, I'm nobody."

"Well, nobody, you've got a clean bill of health," she says hoarsely. And she waves me away, showing teeth. "Now get outta here."

I'm only too happy to do as she says.

* * *

The sunlight is so harsh that I'm momentarily blinded. My eyes actually start to water--heavy, cloying fuchsia that dries in smears on the backs of my hands when I rub it away. Pirate's there, unbearable and smug as ever, resting against a shovel on crossed wrists. He's shirtless, the fool, letting the sun beat down on his skin. A sheen of sweat evaporates from him as I watch, like grease off a bit of bacon.

"Watch yer step, Butch," he says. Almost too late, I notice the large hole in front of me--quite narrow, but deep enough to twist or break an ankle if I fall in. There's a pile of stones off to one side. They're chalk or clay-based, dense and powdery grey.

"What's this?" I ask, gesturing at the hole. "Hidin' the bodies?"

"After a fashion," he says. "Get in."

Raising one eyebrow, I do my best imitation of Kitana--clear and cold and more cultured than I will ever be. "Pardon?"

"Get your ass in that ditch!" he says, disgusted.

"What about the rest of me?" I mutter. "And what in Hells for?"

"Didn't think you could bust up Koteth for nothin'? This is payback, honey--discipline." He smirks. "Telsor's orders. Somethin' about you bein' too hotheaded for your own good."

I have no particular wish to incur Telsor's wrath, and at least there will be shade at the bottom. So I hop in.

"Now what?" I snarl. "Don't tell me I'm just supposed to stand here."

"Nah," he says, leaning down over the edge to watch me. "Take this--" he passes me the shovel, "heft those rocks with it, and fill in the hole. Can't climb out, and if y' grab more than one, you've got to scoop them both out and start over. Got that?"

"I can hardly see the damn things," I say, squinting over the lip of the ditch.

"Not my problem," he says. He glances down at me with a leering expression that might be a smile, taking advantage of the view. "Nice outfit, by the way."

"I won't forget this," I tell him, calmly.

"I'm counting on it."

"I wasn't fighting myself out there," I say. "What'd Koteth get for this?"

He shrugs, some of the mockery gone as he searches my face.

"Who'd y'think dug up the rocks, pretty?" he asks, and is gone before I can reply.

* * *

_From the Diary:_

----------------------------------  
"He that is not jealous is not in love."

--St. Augustine  
---------------------------------

What, exactly, is Brin's motive? She was obligated to drag me back to consciousness, but the rest of it was completely unnecessary. Her goodwill--if such it is--brings misgivings with it. By mutant etiquette, a gift like that is a white flag. Yet it also declares her sense of involvement, and maybe attachment, where Baraka is concerned.

Given the way she reacted, I'd lay even odds that they're lovers. It's hard to write off her feelings for him, at least. (As for the episode with the slacks, I prefer not to think about it. Hells! As long as she keeps her paws off me, we can work something out.)

So it's a truce-gift, this thing, but one with thorns. It was his favorite shirt. He wore it to the point of wearing it out--I've felt the thin places in it, the uneven mending. He never would throw it away, and eventually it became associated with him. His trademark, if you will. 

I have the unpleasant sensation that I'm wearing a target...

* * *

Downtime at last! I was beginning to wonder whether our commanding officers were trying to kill us with exertion. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger--that's the cardinal bylaw here.

It's much calmer than the first gathering I witnessed. The drills and exercises and trial runs have been a highly constructive outlet; everyone's too ragged to pick fights. That, and there's less alcohol going around. Whatever the real reasons, we've got dancing in place of wrestling this time. 

It's not in the method I understand--there aren't enough women for the standard pairs in a waltz, and none of these guys would be caught dead with their hands around each other's waists. Besides, I don't think they know what a waltz is, much less how to dance one. But that doesn't stop the music--if off-tone singing and a single large drum can be called that. None of the participants seem to mind.

In groups of five, and never more than nine, they're nearly skipping between two fellows who've crossed their blades in a sort of grid pattern. The rhythm never changes: apart, together, apart, together. A good precaution, since the tempo constantly increases, always faster. If anyone slips, they'll be missing a foot. 

Koteth is sitting by himself--an occasion so rare that I saunter over to see how he's doing.

"Hey, Butch." He looks up, grins at me. "You _know_ you want some of this." But it's a joke.

"Nah," I say, dancing a little against the drums, a slight sway to my hips. "Way too hairy, you." I use the lewd inflection on purpose. He gags on a mouthful of that drink, literally choking down his laughter.

"Sharp," he says admiringly. "Come sit with me."

"What about Tharn, huh?"

Koteth shrugs insolently. "Armano's problem, not mine." So that's Pirate's name. "Wanna dance?"

There's a sudden yowl down front; one of the dancers just cut his boot open. It can't be too bad--he keeps at it, punctuating the flamenco rhythm of the drum with the clatter of broken fastenings every time his foot touches the floor.

"Sorry, handsome," I tell Koteth with a shake of my head. "Not my scene. Maybe next time."

I'm off into the crowd again before he can take it too much to heart.

With nothing to do, with no specific mission to accomplish, I'm able to just drift, snaking my way through the crush of bodies with that impromptu dance of mine. There's nowhere I have to be, no one I have to talk to. I'm a grain of sand dancing loosely through the desert--now gently shifting with the wind, now standing still, now sliding into place. It's a new feeling, contentment, and worth savoring.

Brin's scurrying about by the tables in my left corner of vision, trying to serve everybody everything. She's a good enough barmaid; mixing drinks is probably only a little more complicated than brewing poultices and whatnot, and she's quick on her feet. She's got witticisms ready for any reluctant customers, and swift hands waiting for the fresh. I flinch in sympathy more than once--that girl can really slap.

My attention's distracted by the familiar flicker of dark, tousled hair that belongs to Mouseballs. He has blue eyes--more common for us than for Edenians, but still a decent marking feature--and is on about chest level with his fellows. He's built like a collection of reeds and wires. I know him; I know the way he moves. If I could just remember who he is...

He's walking quickly, not quite running, and stumbles into one of the twins. She gives a low growl and grabs hold of him--her hand is nearly the width of his waist. This won't end well.

"Well, hello there," she says slyly, trying for coy and missing by a good ten feet. "You're Ismar, yeah?"

"That's me," he says, and his voice hardly trembles.

"I'm Lara," she says, and hooks her arms around him.

"I've heard you're very--fast," Kara rumbles, licking her lips and drawing in behind her sister. "Seems it's true after all."

"Not that way," he protests. "I'm not old enough for this."

"Aww," says Lara, "no problem." She tongues his ear, pretending not to notice as he recoils. "We'll make you a man."

"Give us a kiss, handsome," Kara adds, crushing him with her breasts.

"Hrrmghruphh," Ismar demurs, shoving her away. "Lay off," he growls.

"I hear you right?" Lara says, still tangled around him, grinning hugely. " 'Lay'?"

I've got to do something, before they suffocate him.

"Get the message, man-she," I growl, pacing forward. "He doesn't wanna stay with you."

"Who asked you?" Kara says. She has to tuck her neck down just to look at me.

"Yeah, fancy-shirt," Lara chimes in. "You get paid for it."

"Say that again," I tell her.

"Why?"

I smile, showing just a little steel at my wrists as I advance. "So I can hit you twice."

She scowls at me, but steps away from Ismar. Kara turns him loose and stands beside her twin, showing even more steel than I did.

"What is this?" I say, snorting my derision. "Tag-team?" I crack my neck and affect a bored expression. "Come on, then."

Oblivious to the tension, Koteth ambles up and claps me on the shoulder.

"There you are," he says with a wobbly smile--he's really been hitting that drink since I saw him last. "How's things?" Then he blinks, a little blearily, and takes in the situation. "Oh." And he puts on his best suave demeanor. "Good evenin'," he says.

"What's he want?" Kara growls. She knows better than to trust him, but all the same, she's watching him intently. Very intently. Koteth flashes his best smile; Lara's eyes tighten shrewdly and she doesn't quite lick her lips.

"Trouble, ladies?" he asks, in tones so silky they'd be a joke in other circumstances. I'm impressed--he manages to control the slurring quite nicely.

"Just a dumb bitch and a boy nun," says Kara sourly, her idea of humor. Koteth chuckles lightly, and it's got nothing to do with her wisecrack.

"Incurable letch!" I hiss in his ear, without much reproach.

"Yep," he hisses back, the smile never leaving his face. Louder: "Hells, no, you scrawny bint!" He steps away from me quickly--both for dramatic effect and because he's unsure whether I'll hit him for insulting me. "Not for all the copper in Tanjyin!"

Lara giggles, the sound rusty from lack of use. "She offered to _pay_ you?"

"And some other things," Koteth affirms smoothly, just short of getting a beating from me. His easy stride across the floor closes the distance between them. "Sorry, sweetheart," he tells me, as Lara nuzzles up to him. "You're not my type."

Lara's the taller of the twins--so much taller than Koteth that he's talking into her ribs. Kara has come up behind him, cutting off any chance of escape, and he doesn't seem to mind. He winks prominently, leering with almost comical exaggeration, pausing to smile at Ismar.

"See you 'round, fella," he says, not unkindly.

"Err," says Ismar, still dazed--I think Kara's cleavage compromised the airflow to his brain. "I hope not!" he says, earnestly.

Koteth barks a laugh, watching us for a moment more over his shoulder before the twins drag him off into a side room.

* * *

I decide not to ask Brin what she wants as she paces up beside me. Her eyes are literally glowing with the force of her temper, bright acidic green. She looks angry enough to bite me, and possibly carve my eyes out in the bargain.

"You," she snarls.

It's just as well Ismar joined the dance--he's seen enough gratuitous violence for one evening.

"Me?" I wait for something a little more descriptive. A shout or a sentence or an insult. Even a curse might at least let me know what she's thinking.

"You're the problem here," she bites out. She can't decide whether to clench her fists or not, and settles for ramming them deep into her pockets. "He was fine, before--"

"Before he killed me," I finished.

"No," she answers stiffly, with a sharp shake of her head that has her hair flying. "It's not about him. He ain't the problem. Not all of it."

"Wanna fight me?" I offer. "It might help."

"I gave him life again," she says, very softly, "and he doesn't want it." She stares me down. "Because of you."

"Tell him it's the same for me," I hiss, "when you visit him."

"I will," she grates out, "and I won't be alone."

"So he's got other--friends," I say, twisting the knife as hard as I dare.

She nods, her smile a grimace. "He does. You."

She grabs my arm and more or less flings me up the stairs. I cry out--more loudly than I mean to; she's got a hell of a grip--but no one notices, absorbed in their own pursuits and troubles. My arm is already purpling beneath her clenched white fingers.

"You're crazy." It's all I can think to say as she drags me up a few more steps. My insides are frozen. In fear or expectation, I can't tell which. I slap at her arm with my free hand, half-heartedly, too busy keeping my feet under me to hit her properly. "You're raving mad."

"Go to him," she insists harshly, getting between me and the stairwell. So much for an escape. "You owe him that much."

"Just push me off the landing, huh?" I cry, miserable. "Gets rid of the competition."

"I'm not like you," she says sweetly. "Now, come on."

* * *

I've been thrown out of places before, but never into one. I've never seen someone move so fast, either, which is an achievement on her part. I'm not exactly slow, and she was gone so quickly that only the pain in my arm convinced me she had ever been there to begin with.

It was difficult to see in the warm, burgundy darkness--an effect of the shades over the single slim window at the top of the wall. Furniture showed as strong, twisted outlines against the deeper shadows. A large somber desk, probably salvaged or stolen, was the only concession to appearances. There might have been papers on it; I couldn't tell. That wasn't what had my attention, anyway.

It was the scent. His. A soft, dry smell--the charged, ozone-clear tones of all mutantkind and that certain rich savor that was all his, warm and sharp as sandalwood at the edges. Dark and wild...

Pheromones. The realization was swift and unwanted, with embarrassment close on its heels. I stood stiffly, got control of the shivers crawling through the base of my spine, and curtsied as best I could in slacks.

Without warning, there was the pressure of steel at my neck, accompanied by that shadow I never thought I would see again. He was part of the red darkness--it was his home, and I was not welcome. 

The blade pressed into my throat as he advanced, the flat sliding smoothly down my skin without cutting, cold as silk in winter. He turned it over, presenting me with the edge. It scratched at my throat, pulling against tensed flesh. I didn't dare swallow.

"So," he said. His voice was raw, hoarse and twisted past all recognition. It made me wince a little, and I was glad the shadows hid it from him. "He told me you'd arrived. Ismar doesn't lie, unlike some people."

So that's where the little bugger went. I promised myself I'd skin him--if I got out of this alive.

"Hell with this," I said. Damned if he'd scare me, playing tag in the dark. "Everyone's your little spy." The question that had bothered me for weeks popped out of my mouth before I could stop it. "What took you so long, anyway?"

He snorted. "Telsor doubted it, Koteth omitted it, and Brin denied it."

His other blade brushed past my temple, just missing my face as it crossed the first sword, fitted across my neck like a massive pair of scissors. I stood absolutely still, not trusting to even breathe against the pain of contact just short of a caress.

"What is it with women," he said, too calmly, "and lies?"

The steel trembled and I bled. He relented at the last moment, pulling away from me altogether, blades hissing as they retracted.

"Go on," I said, hating the heat in my guts. "You're one to talk. 'I'll love you always.' Remember that?" I'm shaking, I'm so angry. "What about 'I'll die before I hurt you'? Why bother, when you can just kill me?"

"How dare you!" He gathered to strike and only just managed to control it. Good. I wanted him hurting as much as I had, and more.

"Point those blades of yours somewhere else." I forced a laugh and it came out very ugly. "You been sticking 'em in Brin, maybe?"

"Stop it," he warned, his voice and his temper tying each other in knots. But I wasn't finished.

"Nah," I said, sneering, "you wouldn't wound her. Leastwise, not with those weapons."

And then he hit me. Hard. It was a resounding slap in the face, and it left his blood in my mouth. He tasted exactly as I remembered. Strange that I should have recalled that—it was downright weak of me.

Furious, I screamed and hit him back, harder. He exploded forward, lashing out with blades extended. We were too close together for it to wound me; he caught mostly cloth. I drove my leg into his. Cartilage crackled; he fell and took me down with him. My arms were pinned behind my back, driven into the floor by my own body weight.

I stretched up, reared forward and bit him. He howled and elbowed me sharply in the side. I twisted loose and cut him across the front. Skin and muscle split like taut thread under the pressure of my sword until it grated to a halt against a spar of solid bone.

A surgical staple, possibly a graft. What happened? What enemy assaulted him while I slept the sleep of the dead?

He used my distraction to tag me in the same manner, harshly, cutting bits of me away from my sternum, too near the heart. Just as he did before...

I snapped forward—agony made sparks behind my eyes—and pinned his arm under my weight. The flat of his blade slid down my chest and tangled in my shirt, cutting me a little, but not killing. He'll never kill me that way again. I stretched into him, straining against his blade, and bit his face with a murderous hiss.

"Get off me, you crazy wench!" he shouts, trying in vain to get loose--he's too near to kick me. This close, it's mostly elbows and biting, jaws clipping and snapping and sometimes closing on flesh. Blood flows freely, along with a stream of insults and mutual curses, as we do our level best to kill each other.

"Monster," I snarled, trying for his throat and getting a rude surprise. My fangs closed on a steel collar. That to go with the staples, a support of some kind. My jaws buzzed with the resonance. They ached so intensely that they almost went numb. I gave up on killing him and settled for giving him matching scars on either temple instead.

"Me? Look at you." He lunged for my shoulder and just missed getting his teeth in it, his tongue a rasp against my skin. A small sound of surprise escaped him as he pulled away. "You even taste different."

"You don't," I said, softly. Working my mouth uncomfortably for a second, trying to get rid of the ringing in my ears.

"I don't need this," he said, frustrated. "And I don't want you."

"Liar," I called him, licking the sweat from my upper lip. There was some of him in it.

"Thief," he answered, hands on the weave of my shirt--his shirt. "Wrong way," he said. "Left over right--that's for corpses. Very bad luck." His features split in a sudden grin. "Untying it gets rid of the hex."

"Just wanting me to take it off," I teased.

He chuckled at that, caressing the underside of my scalp. "Maybe."

I showed him that I remembered how to kiss, a long, slow lick against his ear, soothing the injury. It's not a bad start. I may actually have a handle on this part of the mission.

"You'll have to work harder at it than that," I whispered, cleaning his wounds with my tongue. 

"What about you?" he said, tensed, going cold in my warm grip. "Is this just work for you?"

Gods. Why do men have the best of logic at the worst of times?

"What do you think I am?"

"You've--changed. I know who sent you." He held me back, waiting for my answer. Denied me the warmth of his shoulder, his touch.

Oh, that's frustrating. I don't want to _talk_ now, you silly creature!

"Should it matter who sent me, or why?"

"I know you," he said harshly, hand clenched against the scruff of my neck. He dug in with his fingers and it hurt so nicely. Damn him. "I've always known you."

"Then you know I love you!" The remark shocked me. Really, of all the stupid things to say, why that?

I tried to move away, sure I'd botched it, but he smiled with a little shake of his head. Stolen Edenian phrases punctuated his next words. "Better to have loved and lost? Best, I think, to love, and lose, and love again."

"You wish," I told him, feigning playfulness. There was a hollow feeling in my guts; I gulped it down and hid it with a smile. This was an _objective_ for me, a pack of _orders_ I was following, and against all logic, all decency, I was enjoying it. How would he react, if he knew? There'd come a time to pay the piper, and the payment for this might prove dear.

"_Ei_, I do," he said, retreating a little into confusion and disbelief. "That's what troubles me. I think--"

To the Fifth Hell with the piper, I'll have what I want.

"Your problem," I said, drawing my arms around him, ignoring the pain, "is that you _think_ too much."

I reached up into his open mouth with mine, very close. Our faces nearly touched, and there I stopped, just at the edge of spectacularly cutting us both. He made a small murmur of shock, of resistance, deep in his throat. Then he crushed me to him—it left bruises, and I was glad. Glad to breathe for him, of him, scent and taste.

I pulled away, gently—he didn't want to let me--and pulled my shirt open with one hand. I hadn't known I was sweating until then; the air was biting cold against my skin. It didn't matter. His touch was all the warmth I needed. 

Our garments didn't fall like graceful autumn leaves or rose petals or any such nonsense, but we got out of them fast enough. Before the world contracted, before it consisted only of us and our dance, there was a last moment of embarrassment. Shyness left over from a past life or newly-made in this one. A sense that we should be doing anything but what we're doing now. That we should be sitting up at his desk like rational, civilized people, safely apart from each other, blandly talking this out.

But we are. We're talking now. Touch as language, mutual and slow, sweet and careful. Sorrow: that's his fingers in my hair, the press of his face to mine, the tight way he clutches me, as if afraid I will vanish. Fear: my shivering skin, hands that tremble the tighter I hold him. Anger: his fierce, determined, clutching kiss. Hunger: my tongue dancing down his face, taking the tears, wiping the blood away. Hope: in his approach, uncertain like an appeal to the bitterest Judge herself. I answer him with resounding positivity, and then teach him the meaning of another word--endurance.

In so doing, I discover to my great joy that there is a final word in this language, with a riotous sound of its own: love.

* * *

Brin held the quill straight, absolutely level. Her Edenian script was very good, considering the red maelstrom that was building behind her eyes. It grew, intensified and danced across the paper, burning holes in it. Burning holes in her.

Empathy--the healer's curse. She wished, not for the first time, that she'd never heard of Baraka. All the world was fire and blood, singular motion, unity...

Damn him.

White-hot, heat and water, blade and water, quelled...

And damn _her_. They were both there, together, tangled up inside her head.

Brin grit her teeth, and wrote. _Promised, delivered, set, and baited. In the flesh._ One rafter trembled slightly overhead.

_So to speak._ She pondered that, then blotted it out. He wouldn't understand. The upper class weren't much for figures of speech, and anyway, he wouldn't approve. 

Shang Tsung was fiercely possessive when it came to his mongrel daughter.

_Things in Tantiss to proceed as expected? Further guidance_--she thought carefully. With him, even a "request" might be too much--_appreciated. Await your arrival._

If everything went as planned, he would be here with the onset of winter, the lean season. Ever the benefactor, he would save what remained of Outworld's true people and lead them to victory against Shinnok. In the gilded age to follow, Tsung's total control of the populace could and would be overlooked. Few complained against a dictator that kept them fed and healthy. 

Of course, it would be best if Baraka were out of the picture by then.

_As for the rest of it..._ She smiled.

_Accidents do happen._

TO BE CONTINUED…

  


  


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**Notes and Translations:**

_ei:_ "yes", "yeah", "sure". A basic affirmative. 

_ghedo'shenai:_ a dojo, gym, etc. Not your mommy's fitness club ;^)

_hana:_ "she" or "woman".

_krik'sit:_ a large land-dwelling crustacean similar to a crab. 

_ro'kenn:_ A unit of coinage in Outworld. Slightly more than an ari but still chump-change. Worth about 30 cents by Earth Realm U.S. dollars. In other words, that "extra half ro'kenn" = 15 cents.

_t'shiss:_ A hood or scrap of cloak worn over the head and usually wrapped about the face as well, for keeping out heat and sunlight. It may be drawn over the eyes in more extreme situations.


End file.
